“You’re obsolete.”

I don’t say anything because how do you reply to that and weren’t you supposed to love me?

--

The water washes over me and the blue of the shampoo stings my eyes. The glass from the shower stall is foggy with heat. I can hear the rain outside falling uninterruptedly. I can hear your voice:

“You’re obsolete.”

--

“Life is like a series of film strips.”

“Am I in yours for long?”

You say nothing, your eyes betray nothing.

“Am I in yours at all?”

You keep on saying nothing, I keep on hearing nothing.

--

The house is dark. Outside, the wind’s causing quite a commotion. Inside, there isn’t even a breeze.

“How many more days?” I ask.

You look at me then, even if you can barely see me in the dark.

“You’re like brushing your teeth. A habit, but you’d feel disgusting if you’d stop.”

I don’t say anything because all that pops to mind is what a terrible analogy.

--

I pack my bags:

“Where are you doing?”

You stand in the doorway, tall, dark, strong.

“I don’t know.”

We don’t say anything for a while.

“Do you believe in magic?”

“I don’t believe in obsoletes.”

You look at me, all sad and sorrow.

“You’re not obsolete, you’re absolute.”

I don’t say anything because how can I say it’s way too late and wasn’t I supposed to love you?

You smell of spring when I walk past you and I try not to whisper when I say “You’re an absolute obsolete. You figure it out.”